Entertain Us (It's Less Dangerous )
by NotUrSquishy
Summary: One's got claws the other a baseball bat they both have secrets. or Two assholes team up to get snarky and to the bottom of the supernatural goings on in their home town, here's to hoping they don't kill each other before the bad guys.
1. He's Overbored Self Assured

Entertain Us (It's Less Dangerous )

Chapter one: He's Overbored And Self Assured

Golden _one_ , sing the birds crowing him once more, _Guardian_ whispers the sky. _Sun child_ calls the wind bustling through the tree boughs.

The wood **speaks** Stiles _listens_.

Leaves dance under foot the very earth celebrating his return.

Branches reach toward him thorns tugging at his clothes strings, flower petals murmur as he passes bursting into bloom.

Moonlight filters down in a halo like spiral dancing with shadows across the forest floor shifting towards his touch.

"Shit " he curses breaking the ambiance as he spirals ass over teakettle thanks to and enthusiastic tree roots shuffling.

One van's gone flying off his feet like a fish slipping from a hook.

It's hit something with a thunk and he heaves himself up with a groan and shambles over to look. Of course, it's that moment when he bends down to pick the shoe up he see's it.

The dead body.

* * *

There is nothing like walking into battle. Except maybe sex and that is a war unto itself.

The very night greets him and stars wink from their perches chattering excitedly. Gossips.

Stiles jittering more than his old jeep on gravel. Bouncing about like his suspension is all shot to hell. Which matches the state of their current plan.

"Stiles it's going to be fine" Scott heads for reassuring.

Wrongly ? Rightly? Assuming nerves are his problem.

Stiles is nervous. _It counts!_ Even if those nerves are in the can we hurry up and kill it lemme at him variety? (As opposed to the more holy fuck this thing could eat me variety.)

"We'll just follow the plan". Oh sweet Scott should have learned by now everything always gets screwed six ways to Sunday when he's around. Lydia arches a fine eyebrow. Isaac blinks lips curving into a smirk. He shakes his head with a sigh because teenagers right. Nothing you can do.

"What plan? " Stiles finally dares to ask stomach twisting.

"The plan. You know form up and hit it till it dies that plan" Scott scratches his head looking at Stiles puzzled.

"The one you suggested man remember" He chokes on his own spit coughing a wheezing hack that sounds like a dying kazoo "You okay buddy?" Scott's brows are furrowed and he moves to bang on Stiles back.

" I was kidding when" He doesn't have to see to feel Scott's belief and it's staggering he takes a moment staying bent to center himself before straightening.

" I- you know what fine, this just might work" He'd kill himself before dashing their hopes.

The thing is if they don't pull this off it might just turn out that way.

* * *

Flash forward five days later. Stiles is returning from walking the border of the preserve when everything falls silent.

Then sound explodes, suddenly his vision is filled with a wild cacophony of movement .

Roots tremble, tree bark shudders, wings beat frantically overhead a doe race by on light hooves a brown blur.

The ground pulses urgently underfoot a crow's cry out in alarm. Stiles is almost instantly racing towards his vehicle bat on one shoulder as he scrambles towards the Jeep.

He doesn't make it.

On the plus side, Stiles might just be getting that creative essay done.

He imagines it would go something like this: Have you ever tried to kill a chimera? No? It's a bit like trying to give a cat who doesn't want one a bath.

Except this cat has fangs thicker than a stool leg and teeth sharper than serrated steel.

While it tries to eat you.

That is to say not like at all unless the cats a Siberian tiger.

Then yeah _a bit lik_ e.

This chimera was of a particularly nasty subspecies that green lizard scales, a goat-like head, and horns. Stiles just might be surrounded by a group of them.

No worries though he's got this.

 **Riiip.**

Currently, his second favorite shirt is covered in icky goo and he's mourning the rather impressive tear in the side while he dodges nasty claws.

Liss had given him that shirt! A pair of gleaming fangs the size of his forearm attempt to take a bite out of his side but miss a hairs breath from skin.

 **Riiiiiip.**

Dammit, the blood stains always washed out best from it and now it was burnt toast.

Stiles swung the baseball bat down in an arch the impact like that of a catapult to a castle wall sending gross blue blood flying everywhere.

A normal baseball bat might not do too much. A rune inscribed baseball bat, however?

Now that's a different story entirely.

He'd long ago abandoned his jacket to the ground and he slowly reached to pick it up.

Only one beast left.

Thunder rumbled in displeasure clouds the very air became charged with lighting. Stiles grinned wide and catlike the chimera narrowed its beady eyes.

"Come on let's go, storm's coming."

The things head swung around watching the movement of his jacket.

"Torro, Torro"

Stiles moved the cloth widely about, the beasts muscles rippled beneath it's scaled body bag legs tensing it's small dark eyes tracking the fabric.

Attracted to motion, not very good eyesight otherwise.

He could work with this.

They danced around each other the Chimera snarling, now he just had to coax it away from his soft flesh and into the ill-devised net of the jacket.

Easy as Cake.

His last thought before getting down to business as a literal cutting block springs towards him?

 _It's a lie._

" _My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard_ dam _right it's better than yours_ ~"

Stiles wiped a hand dirty with icky chimera goo off to reach around his pocket for his phone.

The hell could he possibly want now?

 _"I could teach you but I'd~"_

"Stiles " he answered curtly if a bit touchy rubbing some more goo off onto the thigh of his jeans.

"Sorry, bad time?" A deep voice almost hesitantly asked.

Stiles observed the surrounding carnage with mild pride.

"No, not at all." He was quick to re-assure taking in a particularly nasty blood stain on his jeans (not helped by his frantic grab for the phone) and the swiftly decomposing monster body.

" Perfect timing actually" He grunts shaking some goo off of his oldest pair of vans.

Giving them a considering once over. The trend was getting worn down.

He takes a minute to swing the bat around and drag it in some grass getting rid of some brain matter.

Ewe.

"Someone giving you trouble Bert? " Stiles asked changing his tone with a wince as his hip acts up on the way to the car.

No need to be terse with the messenger. It wasn't Bert's fault he always managed to be in a spot of trouble when the man called. It's not like he could predict Stiles being covered in chimera goo at god knows what hour of the night for the second time in a day.

He could already feel the bruise he was going to have tomorrow and the overall effect was like being fucked by a sandpaper dildo.

Not fun.

"You could say that." the big man on the other end of the line said with a sigh clearly deflating after Stiles light reassurance.

"Bert, explain..please". Stiles said waving his hands in a hurry up gesture eyes casing the area. The chimera could have buddies and he wasn't inclined to stick around and chat.

"The wolf was apparently nice enough not to put the stupid dude through a wall according to the head bouncer. "

Bert's tone of voice clearly stated that this wolf who ever he is had the patience of a saint.

" Guy, Deserves a fucking medal if you don't mind me saying so, the other man was a right prat." Stiles laughed quietly before sobering up

"Uhuhu. How does he feel about the club? The Wolf I mean. "

The gnarled oaks branches shook with a warning. Something was approaching and fast.

"He won't be suing us. Though, you can bet your fine ass he is pressing charges".

Stiles could almost see the eye roll from over the phone.

Ten minutes in and the conversation was amounting to a whole bunch of nothing. He figures it's mostly Carlson breathing down Bert's ass. Someone up top trying to make sure all bases were covered and could Stiles just please please come over for old times sake shimmy over and run a check.

A bit of green moved swiftly on his right side.

He stood stalk still,but for subtly shifting the weight of his feet.

They tracked movement and the moment he put the phone down it would be game on.

Another flash of green caught the corner of his eye to the left.

"Of course man I'll be there in a bit, just some things to tidy up first."

fin.


	2. It's Fun To Lose, and To Pretend

Entertain Us (It's Less Dangerous )

 **Chapter two :** _It's Fun To Lose And To Pretend_

* * *

Memory is a knife, which stabs at the most unlikely of times.

It cares not whether it hits you from the front or the back, on you worst days or your best.

Like death, it takes equally the young and the old. He can feel the ache flaring in his chest, an old companion as he sits.

In the quiet hours, when silence creeps like frost on a window in winter, he questions.

 _Why?_ He wants to scream, but the words never pass his already ragged throat.

Tears leak down his face as he claws himself, shaking in horror.

 _Why?_ He pleads silently, desperation leaking slowly from him like sand out a sieve.

Nothing answers.

Then ultimately, when he's scraped himself raw, opened down to the marrow, something - _anything_ \- does reply.

* * *

Beacon Hills is the sort of "blink and you miss it" between two lay lines with intersecting old graveyards and folk willing to turn a blind eye.

It's perfect.

Sprinklers doused lawns with precious water, offering to quench the thirst of hungry roots that dug down deep into the bedrock below mundane sidewalks.

Fresh asphalt that lay glittering like obsidian in the heat of day leads to its cracked and decrypt forebearers riddled with hidden potholes.

Even further after that rested dusty gravel roads and the occasional clump of mailboxes.

 _Nothing much happened in midday_ , Stiles mused.

The monster hid, tucking away behind slightly toothy smiles and letting the human beasts take over.

What Beacon Hills lacked in day life (and hills), it made up for in nightlife

The thing is, for someone of his nature... He's always sought the harsher side of things, drawn the way piranhas are to blood, aching for darkness.

He seeks it, covets it, as many would a fine wine. What is sunlight without shadow to exemplify the light? Dawn would never be so beautiful without the fading night.

The retreat of blues and midnights purples accent the splash of bronze and oranges that kiss the morning causing you to be breathless with quiet wonder.

When Stiles first meets Derek, he's worked at "The Jungle" for almost a year. Discreetly of course. It pays to know people.

By that time, he's seen miles of toned muscle and does not have to struggle valiantly not to drool.

In fact, he almost pulls a sick face from being in close proximity to all that manliness. Besides, he used to do barbaric things like swim in the river naked after hours of drilling with the weapon master.

Sometimes even wrestling with other dudes and being up close and sweaty with their shlong.

The horror, he still has scars.

So, when he finally reaches the club about the disturbance and remembers to ask for a description, he's less than impressed.

"Dark haired, about yay big." Bert, raises his hands, spreading them in an example of height, then scrunching his brows. "Scowly, looks like he comes from the pits of Tartarus. Broke a wall, then almost ran out of here when I asked for a statement." He hunches over a bit. "Looks like Atlas carrying the weight of the world."

Derek then.

Stiles sighed, defeated, looking at the gaping hole in the wall. This was going to be so much paperwork.

"Yeah." He admitted reluctantly.

" I might know him."

* * *

"Some billionaire businessman?" Stiles shook his head placing papers in a box. He needed to get the files from the incident report.

"Sure." His best friend shuffled his feet, smiling that big dopey grin of his that screamed _I'm lovesick and ain't it great?_

"So you want me to go be a sugar baby?"

"Wait, no, what even - nevermind, I don't want to know, do I?" He shook his head mirroring Stiles agitation.

"I was more thinking-"

"That's a dangerous pastime-"

"-The mechanic next door," Scott valiantly finished despite the interruption.

"Please, as if ," Stiles snorted. _Really, Scotty? Great attempt, but not my thing._

"Next thing you'll say is he's been making eyes at me from the start. That I should totally go interrupt his hard work, at his steady, probably moderately well-paying, job to have an awkward double entendre conversation."

Stiles placed the lid on the box. Scott raised his eyebrows imploringly.

"Ok. Maybe I will go talk to him"

"Seriously?"

"No".

"What? Why?" Scott ran a hand through his hair. He scrunched his eyebrows back together as he watched Stiles heave the box onto the shelf and sort through yet another file.

"Scott, he sometimes realigns the tires on my Jeep. That's the basis of our interaction"

"Exactly he works on your wrangler!"

"For the last time it's not a wrangler, those are 1987 hello!"

He angrily shoved aside a box his baby was a CJ-5 for god's sake.

"Woah, Stiles, what's in that box? It smells rank." Scott wrinkled his nose, taking a step back.

"A severed head."

"Be real! Come on what is it?"

"Trust me, Scott bug a boo, you really don't want me to answer that."

"You're a sucky main man to my foil," He whined. _You never tell me anything I'm worried about you,_ his best friend left unsaid.

"Yeah? You're a sucky bro, but you don't see me complaining!" Stiles countered, tossing the file aside toward his go bag.

"I still think you need to get out there I mean it's been ages since-"

"Hush, there you are again with that thinking! I'm fine. This conversation is going, going, gone."

He flailed his arms about like an electric eel in the ocean, brandishing the other folder he needed like a sword.

Scott rolled his eyes and dropped his shoulders.

"No, really man, I'm fine. Besides, I've always been more of a foil anyhow."

When would he pull his head out of a play and realize not everything was a Shakespearean drama between good and evil?

Scott had recently become obsessed with the things.

Stiles blamed Isaac the scarf wearing douche, who now worked at the bookstore across the way and spent his time being "respectable" and "refined".

Bleck. He scowled at the folder. There was no helping it then. He tossed a hand behind him and signed a prayer across his chest.

"Uh, Stiles?"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing?"

"Throwing salt over my shoulders. I have to go see Derek." Enlightenment and hope dawned on Scott's face.

"Right then you should ask the Hales if they can find anybody who-"

"I would rather dramatically die on the spot due to frothing mouth disease. Now, shoo, Romeo. I have big important adult work to do."

* * *

He pulled up at the Hales loft hours later, extra copies of paperwork made (just in case they met an ill fate at the jaws of their recipient's rage).

He clambered out and only tripped twice on the way to the door; the second time was thanks to the porch step, and not the old maple tree's enthused greeting.

"Hey, Peter," Stiles said by way of greeting as he leaned against the man's chair.

"Hay is for horses."

"Neigh neigh, mother fucker"

Peter looked unimpressed, turning his gaze back to his book.

"Hey, Peter."

Stiles grinned, draping his body across the chair, carefully dangling his sore arm over the front, catching the man's flinch. One point for him.

He was not so subtly trying to catch a glimpse of the writing on the pages.

The pages that Peter was equally not so subtly trying to conceal with his body.

Stiles placed his chin on the man's shoulder, enjoying the minute start of surprise only betrayed by the quick twitch of one finger curled around the edge of the book.

Cue exaggerated long-suffering sigh and eyebrow raise as Peter tilted his face to look up at him.

"What is it now, Stiles?" He cast his eyes over the script.

"How is the werewolf army coming?"

He caught the barest hint of a smile behind the paged book the man was currently wielding like a shield.

Peter wasn't fooling him any; he knew he had the man's full attention and interest at this moment.

"You have to keep it in the family," Peter said solemnly closing his book in a final manner.

"Regulate your own, recruit your own, you know how it is?"

Peter gaze burned with curiosity and something else his narrowed eyes darkened as he ghosted a hand over Stiles' arm barely touching the bruise.

"You smell like blood" Peter began to gently knead circles into the flesh with his hand. Stiles heart rate skyrocketed, his mouth going dry.

"That has nothing to do with it." **Blip** went his heart beat.

Stiles stood there dumbly, snared, by Peters stare a deer caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic. He shook himself, then jerked his arm back like a live wire.

"On the contrary my dear, it has everything to do with _it."_

Before Stiles could exhale a breath and be witty, Peter stood shaking him off with a smirk.

Bastard.

"Derek's in the kitchen moping about life staring at the refrigerator in an act of not to choke on the fumes of his self-hatred."

He gestured vaguely down the hall with a wave.

Huh.

Well, that answers one question and raises several more. He turned to leave and took a left down the hall, opening a door, surprised when towels tumbled out.

Peter ghosted into the doorway blocking the hall.

"I'll be going uh." He looked around.

"Some other time then." His eyes were too amused. "The Kitchen's the other direction."

Behind Peter. Of course, it is.

"Can you move?"

The werewolf stared at him arms still crossed. Asshole was keeping him here on purpose.

He took a deep breath and glared. "Please." _Or I'll move you. Trust me It'd be my pleasure. Just give me a reason._

Peter stepped aside a little, making a wide enough gap for him to squeeze past.

Fine then.

He started walking past the small space, bringing them a hair's breath from each other.

Stiles barely contained a shudder in disgust, not because his stomach was doing strange clenchy things.

"Stiles, I have to say it's been..." He paused sounding very contemplative, heat radiating off of him like a poorly banked fire. _"Interesting_." Peter finished with a purr.


	3. Oh No I Know A Dirty Word

Entertain Us (It's Less Dangerous )

Chapter Three : Oh No, I Know A Dirty Word

"Are you ready brother?" He pauses, considering the question, shifting his sandal-clad feet in the dirt. The walls gleam tunic white. Out the corner of his eye, he can catch sight of their banners thread slowly being eaten by the wind. The sound of drums rolls over the land. Sunlight threatens to crest over the horizon. A hundred thousand souls shine in the distance.

"Is anyone ever?"

Lydia Martin is always a force to be reckoned with.

The red-head's hair is a vibrant halo, or a queen's cowl flowing out behind her in a fiery arc.

The very clack of her heels is "notice me pointed".

As a prominent benefactor of the Jungle and occasional gracer of Stiles's humble presence, she answers to none.

Lydia Martin doesn't act like she bought the place, she walks with the confidence of someone who owns ten percent shares in all supply markets.

She smiles at the adoring public (at this point a poor unsuspecting bouncer whom she is ensnaring with that very smile.) The smile that holds all the delicacy of a butterfly with the hidden intricacy of its wings shocking patterned beauty.

Something that flutters by in the middle of a hot summer's day.

That strikes while the heat bears down on you in relentless waves .

When your eyes have grown lidded against the haze.

The sun leaving you feeling oppressed and sweating, envying the dogs that lay in the porch shade. Just briefly, you catch that snatch of color and you watch a deceptively delicate insect's flight through the cooling breeze, 'till it slips away, gone, in the midst of hot June's marriage to July.

Her eyes catch his. Stiles sees the smile. It's the kiss of spring to summer.

 _Uh_ **oh.**

He's in trouble.

Jackson's a lizard.

Though, he might as well be an iguana or chameleon for all the colors he can change.

Shifty, when you expect simplicity from what appears to be a brainless jock.

A very pouty, beady-eyed venomous pet iguana with a penchant for human flesh. Not the kind you'd find in most pet stores. Even the exotic kind? Maybe he'd have to look it up.

Anyway, there had to be a reason Lydia stuck it out with him, even if Stiles couldn't see it.

Say what you will, but Jackson is friends with the resident gay guy Danny Milton. Best friends in fact. Come to think of it, Lydia is, too.

Interesting that.

Jackson Whittemore isn't a bigot.

He has never been a dick to Stiles about anything sexuality-related.

Jackson is just an asshole.

Plain and simple.

Go figure.

Not the sort of person Stiles wanted to run into, so he casually made his way the other direction and to the dance floor.

Music has always spoken a language of its own; this new world's tunes are no different than that of old.

Something heavy with a base, something sure weighty.

A pounding you can feel in your very bones.

The heart latches onto every score, certain of each note, beating out into a final crescendo.

That's when he runs into none other than Peter Hale.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wasn't aware I needed a reason."

A banshee's scream cleaves the air the way guillotine does a head from a man's shoulders.

Arrows whistle hellos to him as they lay waiting shifting in their quivers.

Armor clamors and ill fitted bronze plates creak a greeting sounding between each soldier's step.

Swords wink from their scabbards, javelins promise swift retribution and ache to sink into flesh.

Spears whisper to shields which stand to proudly at the ready fast in each man's hold.

Across the plains horses, whinnies reach him even here miles from the enemy encampment.

The sea around him can scarcely be looked upon, waiting for ships that rest atop her blue depths.

From a distance, he can see men are shoulder to shoulder; the pace quickens.

Dawn has not yet risen.

The mast of the ship centers him and the ocean waves each time he stands at the helm.

The set of his older brother's face is lined and grim.

 _Soon,_ promises the sun. The gods _never_ lie.

Gunfire summons Stiles from the past like a demon to a circle.

His body thrums as if waking from ages spent dormant.

He is Hellfire incarnate.

He is Judgment sent to smite these beasts.

Stiles is Righteous, and he also needs a weapon.

Peter is beside him like a ghost haunting a grave.

Stiles spots broken table leg. It will have to do; besides half of them are rowen infused any way with silver concentrate.

He smashes the weak point as hard as he can and a piece snaps off revealing a point.

Perfect.

Peter wisely doesn't remark on his improvised weapon and simply moves to cover his shoulder.

"Wolfsbane bullets," Peter grits out, scarcely giving him time to process the news.

His teeth are in fine form and Peters fangs cutting him a harsh profile.

"Someone came prepared." That's when he notices Peter's been shot. Multiple times and his skin's sweating a strange sheen most likely effect of the Wolfs Bane concoction.

"What! How have you been dodging the hits then?" Or standing even?

"Sheer speed & Aerobics; you should try it some time." Peter barks twisting so they are back to back.

"Didn't it occur to you that this was a kind of important detail for me to know?!"

"That I'd taken up pilates; no, I didn't think so." The werewolf cleanly dispatched a chimera.

"Don't be a fucking smartass about it; people are bleeding!" The pain in his ankle throbs; he shouldn't have twisted his leg quite like that, earlier.

"But Stiles, I could be mortally wounded?"

"So rockstar? What's a little carnage between pals?"

Stiles is sure now that his teeth are bared. Blood thrums through at a dull roar, the pounding of his pulse a waterfall echoing in his ears.

"Pals? So now we're friends. Wow, made it to second base so fast why I didn't know you were so easy."

The werewolf tuts, holding a lizard back, muscles hardly straining beneath his skin as the beast snarls.

"Fuck it; a charmed acquaintance whatever gets your rocks off; can you just kill the thing already?"

Peter rips apart the Lizard he'd been toying with jaws apart.

He doesn't wince as serrated teeth leave gashes in his flesh.

A bang like thunder's gong when lightning hits strikes through the air.

Stiles throws himself at Peter bowling them both over, no time to think.

He is on the floor.

Stiles knows this by the digging of wood into his boney spine, and something warm is overtop of him.

He twitches lips parting to pull in a large gulp of air.

"Stiles," growls a voice, forceful and set with iron.

"Wha-" His lashes flutter and he blinks into existence again.

Hands are lightly running all over him and gently through his hair; Peter's expression is odd something he can't place but his eyes are kind- wait.

He lifts a hand in vague protests for propriety's sake, managing to form a nice bird and flips it.

"Now, now, darling let's not give me ideas you're in no state to be doing anything of the sort."

Stiles wants to do nothing of the kind and struggles to lift his head, only to have it gently back shoved down.

"Shush".

"I can-" Too late, though; Peter's already yanking him up further into his arms.

Well, arm.

Damn.

The werewolf grasps Stiles body and sits on the back of his heels, easily cradling him.

"Lydia..." He tries to ask, because this is important. Peter jerks his head to the left and Stiles eyes try to follow, but he can only manage to view the ceiling and Peter's face.

"Mrs. Martin is currently behind the bar as are we. She appears to be making a cocktail with half the imported accompanied by Danny, though she's mostly sticking to middle shelf."

That's where they kept the vodka.

"Molotovs?" He questions.

"Looks like." Peter wrinkles his nose. "They are decimating the Popov."

"Good, stuffs nasty like cologne, not that yours is nasty," Stiles admits.

Peter's face does a weird thing again and Stiles frets.

"'So nice 'n musky, woods, growth and fight and nice."

Peter ruffles Stiles hair, probably because he can; it's hard to tell, but his lips are stretching into a light smile and the tug of them into a smirk is almost wicked.

"Indeed? You will have to tell me more about it sometime."

"Ok." He can definitely do that.

"Right, the place seems to be infested."

"With creeps like you? " He bites his lip. Peter's eyes flash a vivid blue and he can't help but be transfixed by the sight. So much akin to the island's bright water, or the pressing dark of deep salty sea. Stiles lifts a hand and presses it to the man's forehead. Peter's face is mere inches from his as he leans in to hear Stiles speak. "Your eyebrows..." he finally says, huffing a laugh. "They're here." It's almost ridiculously funny because where else would they be? _You're here._ He means. _You stayed._

Peters' head is cocked at an odd angle, and he seems to be arguing a matter silently.

The noise of shattering glass breaks the staring contest between them.

The smell of burning meat wafts by.

Peter's chest heaves for a moment, and Stiles eyes water against the fumes.

He rests his gaze on the werewolf's jawline, using the edge of it to focus his eyes.

Blinking away tear drops and staring up through his lashes, he clears his throat.

"Human offensive has been established." Something heavy rests in his rib cage, like a porcelain plate caught painfully between his ribs. Peter's begun rubbing small circles into his skin, and he breathes easier for it.

"Yes, well, upsy daisy." A falseness lingers about the phrase. Stiles shakes.

"Have to get you into a chair. There are things for me to kill."

He sniffles.

Peter still does not move.

Stiles feels too fuzzy, like floating among clouds, to question much at the moment. He files this away for a later date. He tugs on the v-neck, turning his cheek, into that neck and rubbing.

"Much as I might be enjoying this now, you will certainly regret it later, Stiles, I have to go,"

Peter says, words spoken pillow soft,even as their weight hits Stiles like credit card debt.

Suddenly, he's being slipped from Peters hold, and he clutches desperately at the black shirt.

He groans a full body shudder as he is set down. He's grasping for the werewolf unashamed.

"Please." Stiles says, tears falling from his eyes freely.

 _Don't leave_.

Peter wipes away a stray teardrop from Stiles' eyes, his own orbs flashing bright iridescent blue. His fingers are calloused and his touch is somehow gentler than anything Stiles has ever felt , gentle isn't the word. Stiles finally places his expression; it's reverent. Like Stiles is something precious. Peters' thumb lingers there below lashes, tracing the tear track down to his lips. Then he's _gone._

"Say, your boy's mighty fine. He's making short work of that their beastie." Bert crossed his arms, a contemplative look on his face. Stiles looked up from where he sat, shuffling his beaten up sneakers.

They both watched Peter efficiently rip into the belly of the cat thing strong biceps flexing. Lydia pulls out a nail file from her purse and begins to look down her nose at all proceedings.

"Well, I'm certainly not with him for his charming personality and winning good looks; you know me better than that."

"Hmm." Bert starts licking his lips. "Sure was acting the right opposite earlier."

"With the right motivation, he gets the job done." Stiles waggled his eyebrows then winced.

That motivation being Peter wanted to be done as soon as possible so he could get back to what he was doing.

Which probably consisted of hanging around his sparse apartment filled with musty old books and empty of Stiles. Maybe creeping on some little kids.

Then, yes, that was the right motivation.

Bert, however, didn't need to know that. If he thought they were boning (and he did if that grin was anything to go by), then it would save Stiles some questions. Possibly a few precious minutes could be wasted with denial. Sure enough, a warbler had tried to sneak behind Peter's back and the man reached over, grabbed the beast and snapped its spine clean in two with a sickening crunch.

"Peter just tore that one right in two," Lydia remarked in a conversational manner as she clipped a nail. Jackson and Danny had left earlier without her to pick some things up. Stiles wasn't sure what exactly. Whatever; not his problem. He watches as Peter flashes his teeth in what's probably glee. It's a happy sort of wolf grin and his chest is just a little fast, while his eyes have turned a bright showy blue, belaying his leftover adrenaline from the previous excitement.

"He's efficient like that." Stiles takes a moment to appreciate how thorough the werewolf is with beheading the corpse. (Never hurts since they can't burn it.)

Peter's hands are now lax, but claws have not yet receded into nails.

Flecks of blood still stain his hands and body in a swathy mix of bright crimson and dried rusty brown.

He is a wild in the way of a rugged mountain range.

The kind whose snow capped peaks touch the sky crevices, jagged and yawning with hunger.

The light does his hair favours, highlighting bits of russet in the brunette with a dusky hue.

Peter doesn't slow his movement towards the group.

There is no hesitation when he swiftly pulls out a handkerchief and casually wipes the vibrant red off of his face. His tongue darts out, easily lapping up the bits around his teeth.

The grin gracing his lips is not kind.

Stiles' cheeks are pulling wide at the mouth and his companions blink; too late, Stiles realizes he's wearing his own edged smile.

Every inch of Peter looks all at once alive and at ease, his gait that of a confident predator, muscles flexing with each move as he prowls closer.

He is beautiful.

Then he opens his mouth and it all goes downhill from there.

"Did the little human poo decide now was the time to play a mage and give out the least DPS?"

Stiles grits his teeth violently, yanking a loose thread from his jeans.

 _Oh did the little wolfie-poo play tug-of- war with the clawed kitty-monster-thing and get scratched?_

He grips the chair with his left hand, knuckles turning white.

 _I'm not going to talk to him_. Stile decides right then and there he doesn't have time to waste.

He turns his head to glance at Lydia.

"I don't have to talk to him."

Lydia puts her items gracefully away in that seemingly bottomless purse pulling out… paperwork of all things and handing it to Stiles. Jesus, it's like the stuff bred into more little forms when you aren't looking.

"Unfortunately-"

She closed the clasp of her purse with a loud snap.

"-You do".

"I happen to own twelve percent share," Peter grinned.

"Someone needs to investigate this occurrence for insurance purposes."

Lydia arched her eyebrow, unimpressed with Stiles's pouting.

"I suppose that someone is you?"

"Stiles you are a shareholder as well, you happen to work for-" He coughed, "Own," beating his chest.

"Own the aforementioned insurance company," Lydia amended appearing serene.

He read the fine print once, then read it again. Sure enough, there were Peter's shares, and a clause for property damage and such. It also informed him Lydia was queen, as usual.

"It's liability for you to do it on your own." She admitted with a shrug of her shoulders.

"If someone says Peter wanted to look into what happened, he could."

 _Please don't say with me_. Stiles silently begged, already knowing by the look in her eyes that he wouldn't be getting shown any mercy.

"As the board member, I can appoint a team to look into the matter. " She exchanged a look with Peter, ignoring Stiles sputtering completely.

"I'd like you & Peter to be that team. "

Yep, she had definitely noticed Stiles avoiding her earlier.

It sounded like a bad buddy cop movie.

Stiles hated buddy cop movies.

Lydia's tone made it clear there was no like or try about this, only do.

No. No and no again he would not be working with mothering Peter Hale, of all the creatures, on God's Green Earth. (More like Satans Hell Hole.) He couldn't even look at the guy. Who would be there to stop him from strangling the werewolf if they were alone together?

No witness.

This had promise.

However, that didn't mean he had to like it, not one bit...

"He's an absolute child," Stiles bit out refusing to back down.

"Perfect, then you should get along." Lydia flipped her hair and redid her lips a violent cherry to accent her point. _Work together or else._


End file.
